duplicitous
by sunspots and raindrops
Summary: Ishida thinks too much and not enough; it's ironic how they still don't know if they're lying to themselves or to each other. — [IshiHime, IchiHime (...ish), slight AU, no spoilers. T for mention of self-harm.]


—

.

 _and I was so scared, I could not see the light –  
_ _I didn't want to be alone,_

 _would you just stand there and watch them hold me down?_

.

—

Ishida is sitting next to her bed, observing carefully as she takes the pills from his outstretched palm. He knows they are gagging, chalky on her tongue no matter how quickly she swallows, and so he watches for the reflexive, spasmodic motion of the muscles in her throat. "Don't throw up on me," he warns before she can retch.

His tone is cool, professional – a veneer he puts on carefully to create non-existent distance between them. He wears it the same way he wears glasses or the white coat or his hair parted severely; to remain untouched, _above_.

In reality, he is far from it. It has been two months now – of daily visits, constant care – and even his best efforts could not keep him unattached. He has been attached since long before any of this, anyway; they have gone through too much together to be anything but connected.

Orihime does not gag again, only taking another gulp of water to wash the medication down. Grateful for that, he takes the cup and pats her hand in a gesture of affirmation. _Good job,_ the touch seems to say, _I knew you could do it._

Strawberry-blonde hair catches a shimmer of gold as it splays against her pillow when she lies back down again, grey eyes staring up at the white of the popcorn ceiling. She is wan, hair duller than it should be, eyes dark – she is still Orihime, but a washed out, worn down version.

Ishida turns off his pager, leaving his hand touching hers, just barely.

She breathes – shallow, lips slightly parted; his pulse drums against the thin skin of his wrists.

They wait.

—

 _Paging Doctor Ishida – Doctor Ishida please report to surgery,_ comes the tinny voice over the PA system, interrupting their interlude. He does not move, does not act as if he's heard anything – as if he is not Ishida Uryuu, M.D., accountable to the hospital and other patients besides her.

But it crackles through again – _Doctor Ishida, report immediately to surgery, Doctor Ishida to surgery._

"You'd better go," comes her voice, _finally_ , a rasp that he can tell takes more out of her than it should.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he exhales and stands. "I'll be back," he says. It comes out sounding more like a threat than an assurance, so cold-cold- _cold_ , but that's just who he is – and he knows she knows it, doesn't hold it against him.

Dry, chapped lips turn up at the corners. "Okay."

"You have therapy in an hour, I should be back by the time you are finishing up with that."

"Okay," she repeats softly, but he can tell the concrete timing gives her something to stay grounded.

So he turns and leaves her – ethereal but shake-flutter-fragile, like a dried-out leaf barely weighted down by her hospital gown – to look out the window and see nothing but pain.

—

He is elbow-deep in a middle-aged man's abdomen, and he is on autopilot – clamp, cautery, we _have_ to stop this bleeding – thinking about the nature of responsibility.

Ishida tells himself he has been able to make a difference with her, more than he can with strangers. She has been better – not happy, but _better_ – since he's personally taken over her care. The once-gruesome wounds on her thighs and arms are scars now, and though her wrists are still so small he irrationally fears they could snap from the simple weight of holding a plastic cup, she does not protest any more when holds out congee or crackers or soup. Orihime does not take the food readily, but she eats a few bites – to make him happy, she says – and does not run to the bathroom afterward.

These are small victories, and Ishida cannot help but credit himself. It is not a god-complex, he thinks as he closes up the patient and strips out of his bloody scrubs. It's just a fact. Without him, he does not know what would have happened to her, but it would have been worse. So easily could have been worse.

It's a raw and ugly fear, pushing its way up his throat in a way that makes him feel like he is losing control, just like he had the night he had found her in her kitchen, lying on the linoleum in the dark, and he hates it. Things were not supposed to have turned out that way – he was supposed to have picked her up for a gathering at Urahara Shoten as a mere act of gentlemanly courtesy, not stumbled onto scene that still sends his pulse racing when it comes to mind.

The image of her collapsed, weak, with bloody ribbons adorning the pale surface of her exposed skin, has haunted him since the moment he saw it. Her pulse had been thready, too slow, but there wasn't enough blood for it to be from exsanguination; he had assessed her, trying to stay calm and failing because _she wasn't waking up_ and he could not figure out why. So Ishida had scooped her up – he remembers thinking she was light, _far too light_ – and rushed her to the hospital.

Out of her oversized sweater and layers and shocking _push-up bra_ , stripped down to skin and bones and hospital gown, she had barely been a shadow against the bed, and all he could do was grip her fragile fingers in his and wait for her to wake up.

And when she did, her eyes were glassy, unfocused, as he calmly told her she was at the hospital. Orihime did not say anything, comprehension dawning slowly. "Ishida-kun, I'm so sorry, I had an accident, I didn't mean to–"

She stopped short on seeing the serious look he was leveling her with. "I'm a doctor, Inoue-san. Don't lie to me."

It had been silent save for the steady thrum of fluorescent lighting until Ishida finally asked, very quietly and still holding her gaze, "When was the last time you ate?"

Grey eyes flickered away from his face then, and he had enough of an answer.

"You need help, Inoue-san," he said, voice still coming off cold but tinged with his brand of barely-there warmth.

Then she spoke again, so far removed from her usual bubbly self that Ishida almost flinched. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen, honest," she said, aquamarine hair clips glinting as she bowed her head. "I have it under control, I promise."

The Quincy had resisted the urge to scoff openly, doing his best semblance of bedside manner, "Orihime." This got her attention again and he continued, voice gritty with honesty, "Please… Let me help you. I… never want to see you like that again." His brows had been drawn in genuine irritation or worry… or maybe a mix of both.

"No one was ever supposed to find out," she had whispered, as if that made it okay.

His frown had deepened for a moment before he had taken her hands in his, "But I did. So help me help you. Let me."

Orihime's gaze had been downcast once again as she toyed with the edge of her blanket. Suddenly, she looked up, eyes wide and wet, desperate.

" _Please don't tell Kurosaki-kun."_

—

Initially, he had just told Ichigo and the others that she'd had a slight accident and had to stay in the hospital; no visitors. But that could only hold up for so long, and eventually he had told her that it was up to her to tell them however much she wanted to.

Tatsuki had come first, with flowers and news and hugs, and Orihime had almost seemed back to normal – save the dark circles under her eyes and bandages on her arms and legs. When the dark-haired girl had left, Orihime had slumped back into her bed and stayed there without talking for an entire day. _Too much too soon,_ he had thought.

Chad had been Ishida's suggestion, and it had gone much better. The large man was taciturn by nature, and he had simply gathered the girl's small frame into his arms and told her he was sorry. She hadn't said anything; they had simply stayed there until Chad had given her one last gentle squeeze and left without another word.

But true to his word, Ishida had not told Ichigo, and Orihime had not reached out to him. Until three days ago. And he would be coming today.

Rinsing off, Ishida tries to hope that things will go well, but optimism has never been his strong suit, and he is so afraid that it makes him shake with nerves. He can cut open a thousand patients, but he can't bear to see Orihime hurting any more than she already is.

—

Things are not going particularly _well_ , but they are not going disastrously, either. Ishida had helped Orihime change into a pajama set with long sleeves and pants to keep questions at a minimum, and Ichigo has not ventured any yet. He'd shown up empty-handed with an affable grin, quite the same as usual.

Ishida cringes when Orihime tells some ridiculously outlandish lie about a cooking experiment gone wrong, but the orange-haired man eats it right up without a trace of skepticism. But brushing his dark bangs back for the umpteenth time, he can tell that the "old Orihime" act is wearing her out, and quickly.

He cuts into one of Ichigo's stories about what he's been up to, "Sorry, Kurosaki, but it's almost time for lunch."

"Ah, yeah, I should probably get going," Ichigo defers, gathering his paraphernalia. "I'm supposed to meet Rukia for lunch, myself, actually."

"Can we at least walk him down to the door, Ishida-kun?" There is a note of grief well-hidden in the cadence of her voice, and he cannot bring himself to say no.

"Only if you're in a wheelchair," he compromises.

"Okay," she agrees, and Ishida thinks, not for the first time, that he hates the sounds of that word from her lips.

—

They make it to the lobby without incident, IV drip and all.

Hiking up his bag, Ichigo says, "Well, Inoue, take care! I'm sure you'll be all better soon and back to your old self again!"

She smiles, lips stretched unnaturally wide and eyes pressed closed with the effort until they are little more than lash-lines. Ishida can see her fingers trembling against the cracked black plastic of the wheelchair's arms, can so easily hear the lie as she promises the thick-headed idiot she will try to get better. _He doesn't know her at all_.

It's plain as day, as obnoxiously obvious as the shade of Ichigo's hair, but Ishida lets it go. Sometimes, it's just easier to let people go on thinking that they know what they're talking about. The truth can be ugly, too hard.

Ichigo is whisked out the revolving door into the sun, one hand raised in a carefree goodbye. When his silhouette disappears into the parking garage, Orihime is still smiling that stupid stretched-out smile as she says – with so much certainty, so clear and lucid – "He doesn't understand, Ishida-kun."

He does not respond except to turn her around, beginning the long trek back to her room, his grip tight on the handles and black hair shrouding his face.

It's not until he is helping her get back in bed that the smile wavers and a few tears slide down her cheeks. Ishida still says nothing, tucking her in as she stares out the window and whispers with brokenhearted resignation, "I don't think he ever will. Understand, I mean."

Long, tapered fingers lift to trace the tracks her tears have left, and it's at that gentle contact that she finally looks at him.

Then, _then_ she breaks down and cries, pressing her face into his palm and bringing one sharp-boned hand to clutch his shirt at the collar.

She is so lost – a battered, beautiful angel, and when Ishida kisses her, she lets him – soft, pliant, _alive_.

And he knows that while Orihime may break a thousand times, he will be her savior; he will always find her, hold her, pick up the pieces.

—

.

 _and if the men in white coats are coming  
_ _I know you'll still be there for me  
_ _to chase down the walls around us;_

 _I keep the memories inside my mind  
_ _to show me how to leave the darkness –_

 _you will take me home one day, believe me._

.

—

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts as I haven't written for this fandom in a very long while!

And as always, please let me know if you find any spelling or grammatical errors.


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